


The Owl was the Baker's Daughter

by airspaniel



Category: Battlestar Galactica, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-20
Updated: 2008-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The question is, the six begins, standing to regard Tory face-to-face. Why are you here?  And why are you hiding?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Owl was the Baker's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://usakeh.livejournal.com/profile)[**usakeh**](http://usakeh.livejournal.com/), for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/hot_toaster/profile)[**hot_toaster**](http://community.livejournal.com/hot_toaster/) International Day of Femslash ficathon.

  
_"They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be!"  
Hamlet IV. v. 42-43_   


  
She knows the guards are going to try and stop her. She knows they aren't going to leave her alone in the room without good reason, and she knows that they're absolutely right to do so.

Tory takes a deep breath and steels herself. She has a plan, and it's going to work.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the guard on the right says as if on cue, as soon as she approaches the door. "No one can see the prisoner without proper clearance."

"I have direct orders from the President," she lies authoritatively, channeling the nervous flutter in her stomach into irritation. "There is a matter of Fleet security I am to discuss with the prisoner, and it is very urgent."

The guard on the left doesn't blink, just opens the heavy door and lets her in. The six is sitting there, on the edge of the narrow cot, staring at Tory as if she's been waiting.

Tory is struck still, suddenly. Has she been waiting? Does she know, somehow? Can she sense it, the same way Tory heard that damnable music, in her very bones?

"Are you all right?" one of the guards asks, and it's enough to snap her back.

"Fine," she says, all business once again. "You're dismissed."

The other guard has the nerve to chuckle. "Ma'am, we have orders from-"

"I don't care about your orders!" she snaps, starting to lose her control, but she's so close now So close to the answers she needs. She holds it, clutching the folder of papers she brought with her as a cover.

"I have orders, too, gentlemen, and this information is to be kept at the utmost level of secrecy." She puts out a placating hand, hoping to disarm the men. I'll only be in there a few minutes. I'm not going to harm he- the prisoner, and there is no reason to believe that I'm in any danger myself."

"She's right, you know," the six calls from across the room. "I wouldn't gain anything by hurting her."

"Keep it down in there!" the guard who laughed bellows, and the six falls obediently silent. Seeing that the threat has been neutralized, he turns back to Tory, who's holding her breath and trying to keep it off her face how deeply afraid she feels.

"Ten minutes," he says, and signals to his partner. The door shuts just behind her, and Tory can hear their booted footsteps echo down the metal corridor.

"You're a bad liar," the six tells her, smiling and completely unafraid.

Tory is seized with a sudden anger, and she storms across the cell. "How do you know what I am?" she hisses, towering over the seated six. But the question is too loaded too quickly, and she steps back, not willing to hear the answer just yet.

If the six notices this, she doesn't show it, shrugging casually. "I get the feeling that if Roslin wants to talk to me these days, she'll show up in person."

Tory isn't sure what she means by that, but she lets it go. She isn't here to talk about the president, anyway. Her hands flex around the sheaf of papers, and this was a ridiculous idea.

"The question is," the six begins, standing to regard Tory face-to-face. "Why are you here? And why are you hiding?"

"Hiding?" Tory repeats, voice higher than she would like it to be. "Who says I'm hiding?"

The six smiles, and it's disarming and patronizing and beautiful, and Tory hates her, just a little. "You can call me Caprica. I don't mind."

"I don't care what your name is!" Tory is on the edge of panic and she can't even say exactly why. "You're not... You're just a Cylon."

"Nobody is just anything," Caprica says, kindly. "All of us strive to be more than what we are." Caprica holds out her hand, offering to take the folder from Tory, her blue eyes bright and soft and so full of feeling, and Tory is transfixed by them.

"How do we even know what we are?" she mutters quietly, and Caprica's answering smile is sweet and a little sad. A gentle hand touches her face, a hand that feels warm and caring and _human_.

"We're alive," Caprica intones. "The differences don't matter that much."

Tory leans into the hand on her cheek. "Don't they?" she sighs, and Caprica is so close now that the small shake of her head completely fills Tory's vision.

"You're perfect," she whispers, and kisses her.

The folder falls to the ground, papers scattering to the four corners of the room, and Tory is as helpless to move as she was when she first caught sight of the six, and felt that the answers she needed were just within her reach.

So far, all she has is more questions. But the lips against hers are hot and vital, and the hand slipping back into her hair is trembling slightly; and she finds herself reaching out despite herself, tentatively touching the tips of her fingers to Caprica's shoulder, sliding up to feel the pulse beating at her throat.

"You don't feel any different," she breathes, letting her hand grow bolder in its exploration of Caprica's neck, her face. You feel exactly like me.

"I told you, the differences don't matter."

"But what if there aren't any?" Tory is shaking now, holding on to Caprica like she's the only solid thing, the only safe place in an open airlock. Their eyes meet, and she's far too close to tears, and she hates herself for it, even as she asks. "What if we're exactly the same?"

Caprica gathers her close, speaking her words directly against Tory's lips. "Does that matter?"

And now it's Tory's turn to shake her head and seal their mouths together, desperate where Caprica was calm, needy where she was giving, and they shouldn't - _she_ shouldn't; the guards will be back in only a few minutes

But she can't help herself, lips and hands greedy for the the woman who's holding her, so tender and so _alive_.

Caprica moans just a little, just quietly into Tory's mouth, and she's absolutely right. None of it matters, nothing matters, but they're alive and, for the first time since Tory heard the music, she is unafraid.

Her hands roam up under Caprica's shirt, feeling the soft, hot skin over her spine, just the slightest bit slick with sweat.

"Wait," Caprica sighs, and Tory can feel her smile against her lips. "We can't, not now. The guards."

Tory pulls back, runs her hands through her hair, and wills some of her composure to return. But when her eyes meet Caprica's... "I want to," she says, reaching out again to trail her fingers over the exposed skin of Caprica's stomach, and she can't help it, she feels like she _belongs_ here.

"I know," Caprica laughs, taking her hand and lifting it to her lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her palm. "Someday," she promises, and bends to collect Tory's fallen files.

The door opens then, and one of the guards knocks on the frame with the butt of his gun. "Time's up," he calls, smirking when he sees Caprica on her knees picking up the papers and Tory standing there, just watching.

Caprica doesn't stand up, just lifts her hands to give Tory the restored folder. When Tory takes it from her, their hands brush, and she feels a spark of something white-hot and electric down her back that makes her shiver, just a little bit.

"Thank you," she says, hoping her tone sounds imperious enough to fool the guard, and she turns and walks out of the cell without a backwards glance.

"That's right, gotta make those frakking toasters work for us again; show them whos boss," one of the guards says, and it strikes her how nameless, faceless, _interchangeable_ they are, and how little she cares about them now.

"Shut up," she snaps, head held high, and if the guard reacts to that she doesn't see it. Her heels clank against the deck, harsh and metallic, and she loves the sound, as she walks confidently toward her destiny.  



End file.
